Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
There were forty-four empty lines on the sheet of paper placed on Vesper’s desk.
She knew there were forty-four lines because she’d counted them, over and over again, for the better part of the last half hour.
She was seated at her desk in the Globe’s newsroom, tapping her pen against a cup of tea that had gone cold a while ago.
She frowned at the blank paper, then sat back in her chair, annoyed.
There was plenty of work on her docket. She needed to come up with at least two pieces for next week’s style section, and she still needed to do a write-up on the city’s upcoming midterm elections.
But try as she might, Vesper couldn’t find the words.
She’d woken up early that morning, determined to get real work done while the office was quiet.
But every time she set pen to paper and tried to write, something stopped her.
Charles Belver.
Vesper flexed her right hand, then winced.
Mrs. Belver had eventually found her again and bandaged it properly as promised.
The cut was healing well, but it still hurt slightly.
Vesper stared at the wound, then thought of the malice she’d seen in Charles Belver’s eyes.
His words in her head were almost taunting
I would hate for you to have a more serious accident due to … carelessness.
She grimaced. Maybe the words should have scared her more than they did, but really, they just made her angry. Charles Belver was like any man with power in this city, someone who thought they could bully and intimidate those who he perceived were beneath him.
She would not be intimidated.
She flexed her hand again, ignored the pain, then went back to her paper.
If she wasn’t going to work on her assignments for the Globe, then she’d pivot to her ongoing investigation.
It was now the thirteenth of November, which meant she had exactly two weeks and three days to vindicate Maximilian and get the money the Globe needed, but she was stuck.
She now had a primary suspect—Mr. Belver—but she had no definitive way to prove it.
Speculation without corroboration wasn’t journalism, and it certainly wasn’t enough to clear Maximilian’s name.
For the thousandth time, she thought about what would happen if she didn’t meet the December first deadline, of what would happen to the Globe, to her.
“Miss Evans?”
Vesper looked up. Tom was standing in the doorway, a coat folded over his arm and a hat in his hands. He cocked his head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Vesper sat up again, trying to look alert. “Perfectly fine.”
“We’re heading to the farmer’s market.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “You sure you don’t want to join us?”
Vesper shook her head. “I’ve got too much work, Tom.” She gestured to the paper on her desk, remembered it was blank, then moved it out of his line of vision. Her editor’s eyes narrowed.
“Miss Evans, you know better than most that I don’t say this often…,” he said slowly. “But I wonder if you should take a break. It seems all you’ve done this month is work.”
She raised a brow. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you. Where do you think I learned it from?”
Tom chuckled. “I suppose that’s fair,” he admitted. “But I’ll tell you one thing I’ve learned.” His expression turned more serious. “Life stops meaning much if you don’t have any time to enjoy it, or anyone to share it with.” He examined his hat, then smiled at her. “Just something to think about.”
Vesper watched him open the door and leave the newsroom without another word.
She stared at the place he’d been standing, not liking the new feeling that was needling in her gut.
How often did Tom ask her for anything? In eleven years, she’d certainly asked plenty of him.
Tom had always been willing to read her work and give feedback; he’d never said no when she’d asked to join him on interviews, no matter how inconvenient it was to have a small girl with him.
And that had only been what he’d done for her professionally.
Vesper still remembered the sandwiches he’d made for her lunch, the times he’d taken her to the library and helped carry her stacks of books home.
He’d done so much, and asked for so little back.
She drummed her fingers along the edge of her desk for a few more seconds before standing.
Then she snatched her coat from the back of her chair and raced out the door.
When she was a child, Vesper’s parents had taken her to the Main Street Farmer’s Market almost every week.
It had been a highlight, something she looked forward to. Her parents had taken her and her sister to the market mostly to find food at cheaper prices than the grocers, but her father had waited until her mother was distracted to whisper:
We’ll get you some treats too, if you’re good.
Vesper still remembered the excitement of visiting the market, the sense of authority she’d felt as she’d held Ethel’s small hand and given her a guided tour of its different offerings. Sometimes, she wished she could have just a small bit of that wonder back.
Eleven years later, as she and the rest of the Globe’s staff meandered down Main Street, browsing tables manned by farmers who came from the rolling hills outside the city selling carrots, sweet potatoes, and winter squash.
They passed artisans selling street art, handmade jewelry, and any number of painted pots and plates.
Vesper inhaled, and took in the sweet and spiced scent of fresh apple cider—someone was brewing it somewhere on this street.
Her mouth watered as she considered finding it, but just as quickly, she swallowed that urge.
She couldn’t afford to waste money on frivolities at a farmer’s market, not until she knew that the Globe would be okay. Until then, every gild mattered.
Tom pointed, and they headed for an open area that featured several different scarecrows.
It seemed there was some sort of competition going, with passersby able to cast ballots for the one they liked most. While Tom, Nell, Rory, and Ronaldo wrote down their votes, Vesper let her eyes wander the busy street.
It was packed with people, but her eyes caught on one person in particular.
A young woman, dressed in pink, making her way up the road.
She stuck out among most of the plain-clothed folks; no one else on this street could afford silk that expensive.
Vesper thought she recognized the young woman’s dark curls under her hat.
“I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder, and then she was moving through the crowd.
“Ada!” she called. “Ada, over here!”
The young woman turned and did a double take. When her eyes landed on Vesper, she smiled.
“Vesper!” She hugged her tight. “What a lovely surprise.” She looked her over, and smirked. “Not undercover today, then?”
“No.” Vesper smiled back. She found that she wasn’t embarrassed for Ada to see her in her normal clothes. If anything, she was glad to see Ada when she felt more like herself. “I tried to find you at the Belvers’.”
Ada rolled her eyes. “My mother had a headache, so we left early.” Her eyes danced. “I heard all about it though. You continue to be the talk of high society.”
Vesper crossed her arms. “I’m surprised to see you here.” She gestured around them. “I didn’t think a farmer’s market would be to your taste.”
The corners of Ada’s eyes crinkled. “I do enjoy some of the street art,” she said. “But the truth is, I needed to get out of the house. I figured some fresh air would do me good.”
Vesper paused. Now that she was standing closer to Ada, she noted that Ada’s cheeks looked slightly puffy, and her eyes were red.
“Ada.” Vesper’s voice softened. “What’s happened?”
“What?” Ada fidgeted. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been crying,” Vesper said in a lower voice. “I can tell.”
“Oh.” Ada pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her face. “It’s nothing.”
“Ada.” Vesper took one of the girl’s hands in hers. “As a reporter, I deal with sensitive information as a part of my job.” She gave her a meaningful look. “You can trust that anything you say to me will stay with me, you have my word.”
Ada smiled, and then Vesper saw something in her expression slowly shift. She looked away. “As I said, I’m being silly,” she murmured. “Most girls are much happier when they get engaged.”
“You’re engaged?” Vesper blinked. “To whom?”
“A gentleman named Melvin Calhoun.” Ada wrinkled her nose. “He’s a banker. My father knows him.”
“I didn’t even know you were being courted.”
Ada’s eyes hardened. “That’s because I wasn’t.”
Vesper paused. She hadn’t missed the disdain in Ada’s voice. “Is Mr. Calhoun … unattractive?”
“No.”
“Is he unkind?”
“He’s fifty-seven.” Ada’s tone was flat. “I’m nineteen.”
Vesper stiffened. At fifty-four, Mr. Calhoun was three times her age. Her brow furrowed.
“Surely you don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to,” she said tentatively. “Couldn’t you just tell your parents that you don’t—”
“My parents are the ones who’ve arranged the marriage.
” There was a bite in Ada’s words, but this time, Vesper heard a slight whine behind them that reminded her of an injured animal.
In a whisper, Ada added: “My father has made things quite clear. He’s tired of my ‘dilly-dallying,’ as he puts it, and he wants me to make myself a respectable woman.
I’m to marry Mr. Calhoun, or I will be stripped of my inheritance and cast out.
” A single tear tracked down her cheek. “I have no useful trade or skill,” she said.
“I wouldn’t last so much as a week on this city’s streets. ”
Vesper squeezed Ada’s hand. “What if you found someone else?” she asked. “Someone handsome and kind, but closer to your age? Perhaps that might satisfy your father?”
Ada shook her head. “It isn’t about that,” she said. “I could meet the perfect man, and I still wouldn’t want to marry him.”
“Why?”